Snap Me Back Into Hell
by Lyra Silvertongue2
Summary: When you've no one to talk to but yourself and the walls...you tend to forget what hope is. Dark one-shot, DracoHermione.


          The dungeon had always been dank, for as long as he could remember. Sometimes it got so bad that moisture would drip down the walls and onto his head. For a long time he had screamed at the gaolers to prevent this from happening, but after long years of its persisting, he had grown used to it.

          Today the dungeon was dripping. Fetid water splashed down onto his hair and ran down his body. Most of it dripped down in front of his face, and he'd watch it, fascinated. See the way the pretty clouded drop forms a perfect little sphere, falls through the air and explodes on the floor. One time he'd tried pouring his own water onto the floor, but he'd never been able to achieve the same effect. He supposed the water had to have those little specks of dirt floating in it.

          It was a good day for Draco. It was a Pansy day. That was a day when Gaoler Parkinson was on duty. She didn't come to his cell as much as the others, and if she did, she could always be counted upon to be unimaginative. _No boils today,_ Draco thought happily, _just a plain old **Crucio**. No problem._

Draco blinked, and another drop of water fell before his eyes. He almost wished he could see it with some light. Light, he pondered, would be great. Because then there would be a fancy little _glint_ on the water. But, no, it was just the same old familiar sort of drop, no glint or anything, but familiarity was reassuring, wasn't it? Yes.

          It had been a long time since Draco had seen sunlight, and, in fact, he doubted that the sun even existed anymore. How could it? There was no reason for it to, there was no world outside of Hell. 'Hell' was what he called the dungeon, but not aloud, because he'd done that once and gotten kicked in the stomach.

          None of the gaolers talked to him, or to anyone else—he would have heard them if they'd talked to someone else, and he would have complained, because that wasn't fair if someone else got to talk to somebody and he didn't. Though one time Gaoler Lincoln had said something, when Draco'd first seen him. Gaoler Lincoln had blonde hair, and when he came into the cell that first day, all he'd been able to see was a halo of glowing blonde hair, and Draco'd been so startled he'd backed into a corner and yelled at him to 'Get the hell out, you hate me, you hate me!' Then Draco had heard the only words he'd heard in who knew how long, and he treasured them to this very day:

          "You're right. I do hate you. Shut up. _Cruoris._"

          There was a clanging from beyond the door, but Draco didn't look up, it was just Gaoler Parkinson doing her job for the day. Draco smiled, again thinking of Gaoler Parkinson's lack of creativity. The door clanked open, and Draco blinked at the light, ducking his head down. But then there was a shuffling and no sign of a spell, and then the door clanked shut again, and Draco thought, _That's odd, isn't it? Yes._

          "Are you all right?" said a woman's voice, and for a moment Draco couldn't believe his ears. Staring at the floor, puzzled, he croaked in a voice long worn out from lack of use,

          "Are you talking to _me?_"

          "Y-yes," said the voice, startled. "Look up?" Used to following orders, Draco raised his head to see a tall woman, or maybe she only seemed tall, he was sitting after all, didn't that make sense? Yes. She had curly brown hair, and a heart-shaped face, and she was wearing robes that didn't seem to have been worn as long as his had, but that was all he could see of her, there wasn't enough light and she was too far away. As his long, tangled hair fell away from his face, the woman gasped, "Oh my God. _Malfoy?_"

          "No!" said Draco. "Not Malfoy. _Not_ Malfoy. Not _Malfoy._ Draco. Draco," he reassured himself.

          The woman started to move forward, arm stretched toward him, but Draco, frightened, tried to back away from her and wound up hitting his back against the stone wall. Was this some new form of torture? Had they learned how to do something without wands? Were the robes she was wearing that of a special official, sent to give him pain more than he'd ever known? They weren't a gaoler's robes, that was for sure. They were plain…black, with a badge. Whimpering, Draco curled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them in a protective huddle.

          Seeing this, the woman dropped her arm and said, "It's okay. I'm not going to hurt you. No wand, see?" She held out her empty hands, then patted at her pocketless robes. This time Draco let her approach, and she knelt near him. Then she did something peculiar, but very gentle, yes, gentle, Draco recalled. Gentle was nice. Gentle was good. The woman took a chunk of his grubby, matted hair and tucked it tenderly behind his ear, while peering into his face. "My God," she said softly. "What have they done to you?"

          "Who are you?" Draco fought to get past his dry throat.

          The woman's hand remained at his temple, still on his hair. "You don't recognize me?"

          "No. I've never seen you before. Unless you used to be a gaoler. I don't remember some of the gaolers sometimes."

          "My God," whispered the woman again. "My name is Hermione. Do you remember that?" Draco shook his head, suspicious. He didn't know her. Why did she insist he knew her? He didn't know her. "Do you remember Hogwarts—at all?" He shook his head again. "Gaoler Lincoln said you always reacted badly to him. Do you remember why?" Hermione prodded.

          "Didn't like his hair," husked Draco, now shaking his head to fend off her exploring questions.

          "He has hair like yours."

          "No he doesn't! He has hair like _him._"

          "Who's 'him,' Mal—Draco?"

          "No." Not talking about this anymore. _Leave me alone. I'll play with my water. Yes. No, no, no._

          "All right," said Hermione, dropping the topic at the same time she dropped her hand to his arm, rubbing it soothingly. Draco stared at her appendage in shock. "How long have you been in here?" asked Hermione, almost to herself.

          "Always," said Draco.

          "Not always. You've met me before," she said again.

          "_Always,_" insisted Draco.

          "Then how do you remember 'him'?"

          "No."

          "'No' you don't remember him?"

          "_No._"

          "All right. Do you know why you're in here, at least?" Her hand was still rubbing his arm. It was distractingly comforting. Why didn't she just _do_ what she came for and _leave?_

          "Something…" started Draco. But, no. No, he wasn't talking about that. It had to do with _him,_ and he didn't want to talk about _him._ "No."

          "Crimes against Lord Voldemort," Hermione told him softly. Draco stared at her, bewildered. "Do you know who Voldemort is?"

          "No," husked Draco, then began coughing from talking too much. 

          "Oh! I'm sorry," apologized Hermione, sounding like she was sorry for more than just making him talk. "Here, have a drink of your water."

          Draco had to unfold himself from his defensive ball to take the cup. Sipping at it, he felt his throat calm down slightly. And from the past, one tiny grain of knowledge came rushing out at him, and though he didn't quite understand its significance, he knew he was supposed to say it. "Thank you." _Gratitude?_ recalled Draco. _From when I used to…talk to someone. I used to talk to someone?_ "Why did you come here?" he asked bluntly. And why was she being so nice? When was this brief moment going to snap and return him to Hell?

          "They sent me here because you were a difficult case." _Case of what?_ "The gaolers said you were different from the other prisoners. They told me that you'd broken."

          "Broken?" asked Draco, beginning to cough again. He took another sip of his limited supply of water. Hermione patted him on the back, and once again he marveled. "Not broken. Though once they broke my arm and that was broken, but I just held still for…for a while, and it got better." He showed her the spot where his right arm had been bent at a bizarre angle.

          "No…no, Draco. They told me you'd gone crazy." _What?_ "They told me you might be difficult to talk to."

          "I'm not hard to talk to. Nope. Not crazy. Nope."

          "I don't think you're crazy, either. I just think…I just think that you've given up hope."

          "Hope?"

          "Oh, dear." Hermione looked very sad. "I've come to take you out of here."

          Well, that didn't make any sense at all. He told Hermione so. "There is no 'out of here.'"

          Sighing, Hermione told him, "Yes, there is. You've been there."

          "No."

          "Yes, you have." Draco went to deny it again, but she said, "but that doesn't matter right now. I'm going to take you out of this cell—to the gaoler's office. And other people are going to make sure that you're all right. Okay?"

          "What other people?" said Draco suspiciously.

          "Other people in the resistance movement. We've taken the jail. Do you remember—um—I suppose you don't. Harry and Ron."

          "Who?"

          Closing her eyes in pain, Hermione said, "That's why I think you've lost hope. When I was caught, I knew I had friends who would try and help me."

          Hermione still wasn't making any sense. "What? There is no 'out of here.' There is none."

          "Look, Draco. I need you to do something for me."

          "What?" Anything for the first company he'd had in forever. 

          "I need you to believe me. I need you to believe that there's a world outside of here. Can you do that for me?"

          Draco thought hard. Thought about the gaolers and their wands and the pain they brought with them. Thought about his everyday slop and water. Thought about the scratches he'd found on the walls, that he'd finally figured out were counting the days and had been carved by him on some day in the distant past. And then thought about the only person he'd ever talked to, and who talked back: Hermione. Thought about how she was so delicate in her touch, and had brought no pain.

          Lacing his pale, grubby, chill fingers through her warm, healthy ones, Draco said, looking into her eyes, "I believe."

          A few minutes later, Draco held Hermione's hand hard and stepped into the light.


End file.
